Note to those that know me personally: if you read the following, you'll be able to infer some things about my sex life, if I haven't told you already. But that's okay. If you haven't told me already, I've probably inferred a few things about yours too. When they put me in the ground, I'd like it remembered: I lived, damn it.
Note the date: I've been recovering faster than I can blog about it. That is a good thing. I'll backfill later, but for now, the short version: Once I started to be able to sleep at night around June 6 or so, and the physical symptoms abated, and I'd cleared my space some, things turned around. The first two weeks were murderous physically and mentally, and the last two have been much better by comparison. I'm not questioning it, you understand.
All of which found me, on Wednesday, at a munch at a cafe on Commercial. Now a munch, for those of you who don't have familiarity with the term, is a kind of coffee klatch for the leather and PVC set to meet up in civvies and get to know one another under relaxed circumstances. Think of it as a community-based defence mechanism against predators, a kind of secret handshake. I'd only been to one since L went to Asia, and this one had moved from an old location under, ah, political circumstances while I wasn't paying attention. But still, it was good to go out and practice my social skills again. I only knew a couple of the people there, and them distantly, as most of my and L's old running crew has scattered either to marriage or sadder fates far from the city. But this kind of gathering was where I first met L, and if you want to get back in the habit of meeting people, you have to go where the people you'll want to meet are. This was a small one, only about a dozen people, with a few vets but mostly younger people.
And it's all about the people. I'll get to the three leatherdykes and the gorgeous Asian boy I spent Saturday night with in a minute, but first, let me say this: as far as I am concerned, there are two and only two truly great Star Trek authors, Diane Duane and the late John M. Ford. And Duane wrote one truly amazing and transcenent novel, called The Wounded Sky. In it, the Enterprise must save the universe from being consumed by a kind of anti-entropy, a higher plane which is for all intents and purposes indistiguishable from Heaven. A Heaven in which people can, at long last, become the version of themselves they are inside.
You know the Matrix, where everyone is an idealized version of themselves? Pretty cool, right? But it's actually tame compared to Duane's version, which predates it by at least a decade. If you could really become who you are inside for everyone else to see, why would everyone stay the same gender? Why would everyone stay, say, human?
So anyway, at the Munch I met Prince, (a pseudonym that's not based on the singer, just a kind of riddle. A prize to anyone who solves it) a very nice 22 year old University student, cute, shy, slender and Asian, who'd managed to get out to a couple events but been too shy to approach someone. An interest in rope, and being tied up by strong women. All kind of...familiar. And I recognize Karma when I see it.
Prince, you're with me, I said, Let's go to Rascal's on Saturday. I'll help you get your feet wet, introduce you to some people.
"But would anyone want to play with me?" He says.
I smile at everyone else at the table, all of whom smile back at me. "Prince, you're young, cute, and want to be tied up...." Everyone else is grinning as I finish, "I don't think you'll have any trouble."
I arrange to pick him up at the cafe on Saturday after he clears dinner with his folks, and practically skip as I head back to Richmond and my gaming crew. I know Karma when I see it. And I know what it was like to be 22 in an age before the internet or Savage Love, and have no idea how to proceed, and I know what it was like to have to wait until I was 27 and random chance put a prodomme in my local comic store for a visit. I'm not saying those five intervening years weren't good years, but, would I have taken the plunge at 22 if I could have?
Instantly. Once you pass through some doors, you can never go back. But for some of them, why would you ever want to?
So, skipping ahead two days (wherein, I bought a new outfit, bought a new computer, and had beer with !L), I found myself back at the same cafe, where I stolled in, flagged the newly arrived Prince, and bustled him into my car for a drive up Commercial Drive.
"What is this place?", says Prince.
"A concert venue, normally. It's an old dance hall from the 20's, I think. But anyone can rent it, and that's what Rascal's does."
"Do the neighbours complain?"
"They're used to loud music, and we try not to go outside in anything outlandish"
Prince is in his basic black outfit, dress shirt and pants, and once we get inside I will duck into the washroom and change into a millworker ensemble for the evening. Something loose, comfy, not really designed to attract anybody, just something different. It's a world of makebelieve, really, a kind of theatre, and it's contributing to the atmosphere if you dress up somewhat. Some events in town are more clubby, and insist on fetishwear, but here it's much more about socializing and play. Besides, all that PVC, latex and leather gets pricey, you know.
At the door, I introduce Prince with a smile as we pay the cover. "He's completely new", I say, and the lean sixtyish man in the thong and hawaiian shirt and the Operatic-sized woman with the breastplate the size of a Buick both break into broad smiles. "Welcome", they say, and lay out some suggestions for newbies - you don't have to play with anyone, and the first time can be overwhelming, so it might be best not to play at all.
Even though we're relatively early, the place is pretty full and we take a table near the playfloor. It's a bit like cabaret, with a front area for sitting and socializing, and a play area for apparatuses. Think of it this way: your average apartment dweller doesn't have room for a St. Andrew's Cross and a rack in their living room, especially in this city. A lot of folks are here just for the chance to just hang out and be themselves, but if you want to do some real play, you need to go to a private club or one of these events. Lots of room to swing a flogger, no neighbours, freedom to be loud, 9PM-1AM, cover charge $20. Come on down.
It's not for the faint of heart, though, and your first time can be overwhelming. Mine was (a long story in itself, for another time) but Prince is eager, full of questions about the history of the devices, the conduct of the room. I brought some books on the subject, but he drinks in the room and the atmosphere like a man emerging from a desert. I know that look, I remember it. It's like being gay and entering a gay bar for the first time. You'll either run screaming or think to yourself, At long last, I am home.
A group of visitors from the Okanagan settle down next to us, middle aged and smiling, one in a Chadour that she quickly doffs due to the heat, revealing the sleek black dress so common here. Common, but not omnipresent, as there's always variety. Lingerie, camisoles, fishnet body suits, all around. Transvestites, ponies, every variety of body type and ethnicity, even if the majority are still white. All so human, all so beautiful.
The visitors introduce themselves and I do the same. "This is Prince. It's his first time". They all grin. "This is Larry. It's his first time", one woman says, indcating a sixtyish grey-haired man in black. We are, all of us, home.
I had hoped to play with !L tonight, but she won't show up in the end, which is a disappointment. Perhaps I misunderstood something. And again, none of my old crew are on hand. A few familiar faces, sure, but no one I really knew. But the evening goes in an unexpected and welcome direction when Teak, chief dungeon monitor for the evening, stops by.
Now a party like this needs a lot of volunteers, and the monitors' job is to walk the floor and make sure that everyone is playing safely and following the legal and safety rules. Partly for liability reasons, partly to make sure everyone's being safe and willing, partly for legal protection. What's going on here is not even remotely an orgy (Hint: orgies have sex) but Fraser Q Constable may not know that, and that's why every public party has a set of rules that are posted and everyone is expected to read, thus affirming we are obeying the letter of the law. The fire code says no open flames, hence, no candlewax, for example.
T. is a charming and adorable sadist, a bookish dyke in a utilikilt, shirt, librarian glasses and cap that's been bejewelled with a rhinestone skull and crossbones. It seems Prince told a friend on Facebook I was bringing him here, and that friend dropped a bug in the ear of T. to keep an eye out for Prince, not knowing she's basically running the room tonight.
T. quickly assesses the situation and sets about finding someone to top Prince. Her initial idea is a charming woman in a fishnet top and breastless basque, who unfortunately looks like a dominant but is in fact a sub. When I chat her up, recognizing her from Appropriately-Themed-Personals-Website (ATPW), she complains about the constant confusion. people don't read the profile, she sighs, they look at one toppy photo out of eight, and the deluge begins. Male profiles on APTW outnumber women about 5 to 1, but 4 of those 5 are idiots who are pretty much indistinguishable from spammers. Can't spell? Have a picture of your cock and not your face for an introduction? buh-bye. We wind up talking about theatre, and she suggests I look at an auditions list on the VPL website. Might be worth a go.
T, meanwhile, ventures into another part of the room and comes back with a young female couple she knows who, it turns out, wouldn't mind practicing their knots on someone new. They're about Prince's age, and a bit shy, but practically luminous with joy at being here. Xi, the bottom, is a butchy South Asian boi with shaved hair and large friendly curves, while N is white, cute, and practically bouncing with energy, as if hopped up on sugar smacks. Their delight is infectious.
N reminds me of someone, but then a lot of people here do. The woman hosting the guests from the Okanagan looks uncannily like my grad school advisor, and I say so, but she obligingly musses her hair into something ridden hard and put away wet to break the spell. Larry in fact went to school with my advisor, and doesn't see the resemblance. "I've seen her more recently, Larry" I say, which settles things.
N and Xi quickly decide to haul Prince off to the back of the raised stage, which is semi-secluded. I haul some red rope (from a genuine Japanese sex shop!) and a neoprene blindfold out of my toybag, hand the rope to N and the blindfold to Prince (it helps you feel less inhibited in public, I say), and watch them go, giving Prince a push with both hands as they go. Best best case scenario ever.
"T", I ask, "do you see that couple over there?" indicating a lesbian top in a red latex dress crouching behind her petticoated partner who's down on her hands and knees with her pretty ass in the air, the top punching her partner's thighs and buttocks, a kind of impact play resembling heavy massage. "What is she using? I can't see what she's got on her hands."
"Those are actually a kind of pink boxing glove", says T. "I gave a workshop on punching a few events ago." A twinkle forms in her eye. "It's a good technique to use on bigger people. I completely messed it up when I said it, though, I think I said 'fat' and insulted half the people there. I was loopy on cough medication"
Did I just hear...
"Bigger people eh?" I put a finger to my lips. "Say....I'm a bigger person"
She puts her hand to her mouth, forming an O of mock surprise, eyes dancing. "Why...you're right!"
Oh Yes.
The Okanaganites indicate Prince up on the stage, a bit obscured from this distance, but shirtless and losing a kind of virginity as he walks through a door he has imagined his entire life, with exquisite style. Even I've never played with two female tops, however young and inexperienced.
"Looks like Prince is having a great time, eh?" Says Larry.
"Absolutely. I met him on Wednesday, he reminded me of me at that age, I said, kid, I'm taking you to Rascal's". The smiles are genuine. We all turn and watch a rite of passage - well, and a lot of other things as well, for by this point the floor is full of all kinds of remarkable things. A woman in a clown nose flogging her sub with a rubber chicken, a couple of tall and graceful ponies in full regalia and headresses - with plumes, even! -being very naughty and trying to undo each other's bridles with their teeth. And always, always, the sound of flat surfaces striking skin.
Later, Teak settles in behind me, a little tired. We've been talking a lot all evening. At some point the story of L and I, which is my explanation of why I haven't been out in public in years, came tumbling out and T has lent me her perspective and her thoughts. She's in a long distance relationship herself, she's seen many similar cases of a drift from bisexuality into lesbianism. We swap geek talk, academics and sci fi conventions, her love of Archives and my survival of Archival and Library School.
We regard Prince and smile, conspiratorially. "We've done a great thing", I say. "We've earned a lot of Karma today"
"Absolutely".
She leans on my shoulder, tired, her ankle bothering her. The weight is reassuring.
"So...boxing gloves, eh?"
"Yes, I think we can arrange something"
"You can lean harder", I say.
"I know", she says, putting weight on me, pulling me into her, subtly. "It's okay". Letting me lean into her arm, just a hint of her chest, a deep breath escaping me, almost on the verge of crying for the first time in days, my first human contact of a certain kind in a year and a half. So warm, so soft. It's just...been so long, I've been so starved for...
"I just...have such a case of Skin hunger", I say...
"I have to be clear, though," she says, "Just to be up front. I am poly, but men do nothing for me sexually any more." Once you walk through some doors...
Is that all? I try to explain that sex isn't really the point right now, for me, where I'm at. Our discussion continues, common ground forms. She tells me of her parents, both bi, and her late Father, three years gone. I speak of my double loss of ten years ago. She's very busy the next couple months, but at some point...quite possibly. I'll add her on facebook, and we'll keep talking. The discussion is wide ranging, delightful, we compare our inner sadists, she describes her relationship with her partner in California, it's all very good. She regales me with leatherdyke tales and stories of new women, rituals of going M to F, opening windows on a subculture I'd never really had a chance to contemplate. The narrative turns, looks left and right, as the worldview expands, suggesting glimpses of whole other realms previously unknown that I will never visit, save perhaps in dreams. C.S. Lewis would be proud. Well, stylistically, anyway. I don't think he'd be down with the man to our right in the chinese dress being turned into a human macrame hanging. But Lewis's vision of Heaven and Diane Duane's aren't so far apart.
"I love this place", she says, "everyone is so happy," indicating the room "...and all these people are so...normal. There's a few classic beauties, but everyone is so...normal looking. And everyone here, everyone, is just free to be themselves, as they truly are inside".
"How old are you, T?" I try to think. She seems so young, and yet...early, mid twenties?
"29."
"I thought you were younger."
"How about you?"
"I'm older than you might think. I run with a younger crowd, always have. Young outlook. I'm 38."
"You're remarkably well-preserved. Do you sleep in a cryogenic capsule?"
"It's the blonde hair. The white just blends in seamlessly."
I propose coffee afterwards for the five of us and T is down with that. I do have to stay until closing, she says, which is fine.
Prince and his captors eventually return a little after midnight, happy and exhausted, N on the verge of crashing, Prince in a light but definite subspace. We wait out the rest of the hour, watching various scenes wind up as we do, chatting about this and that, changing back into our mundane (or at least more mundane) clothes, settling on a coffee shop. The lights come up, we help stack a few chairs, and get into our cars to head back down Commerical.
Over coffee, the theme is transformation. "You know", jokes T, "one simple operation and you could become a woman, get her back, all this could be yours..."
"I think she'd see through such a transparent ploy, really". And besides, it's not like she thought to ask. The idea of crossing that line briefly? Always intriguing. Permanently? Not unless it's really who you are inside. And yet later, the thought bobs up: What if she had?
N is fading, but Teke describes a kind of Japanese full-torso sheath/ facemask combination for transvestites, that laces up behind the head and has a wig built in. "Almost like dolls", I say, And she nods, but gushes "that would be so incredibly hot!" Xi chats about furries versus animal masks. Ponies, like we saw tonight, or mask play, that can be fun. But furries, something about the cartoon googly eyes sets Xi off. I mention the infamous CSI episode and Xi has none of it. CSI completely distorted the subculture, it turns out. Not that furries aren't wierd, and not that we're "normal", as we talk about a woman who spent a party in a cage as a cat, or an online picture of a woman who pony played as a Zebra in fill body paint, or the sad lack of horsehair tails for the ponies we saw tonight. But...those damn googly eyes. And plushy isn't sexy. T tells a hilarious story of being at NorwesCon in a massive troop of Klingons in full battle regalia, all terrified of the one friendly guy who showed up at the dance in a cartoon Squirrel outfit.
They're all incredibly geeky, and horribly shy, says Xi. They relate better to people from inside their costume.
I accidentally refer to Xi as she, which is evidently a faux pas. "He", corrects T, patiently, and I murmur apologies. Good to know that even now I can still feel like a hayseed sometimes. I thus stay quiet as T regales us with a story of turning up at some kind of Catholic-themed sex party dressed up as altar boys, and giving her drag name, which is evidently Irish, which leads into an in-joke that Prince and I don't get, which she apologises for.
I don't mention my catholic upbringing, the legion of priests and nuns in the deep grass surrounding my family tree, or the fact that T's drag name is my father's and grandfather's real one. Let's save that for another time, I think.
We talk about music, and evidently MSI is a better band than I give them credit for. I must give them a better listen. Depeche Mode was evidently a lot less metaphorical in their BDSM than I thought.
(My Mom is still wrong, though, the lyric is "Why does a man HATE another man", not "Why does a man TAKE another man".)
I suggest T. check out Goldfrapp's Strict Machine, not mentioning the Man-Wolf hybrid aspects of its charming mashup of D/S, sex machines, and Little Red Riding Hood, then promise to send her the link on Facebook. She'll be pleasantly surprised.
We're all exhausted, but it's a happy exhaustion, when, at 2AM, I announce, "Let's go home, Team Leather" to general snickering. We scatter, Prince and I dropping off T and she and I parting with a hug, and friendly words. On the way home I chat with Prince about his experience, he still full of questions, and we make plans to hit the next party, in two weeks. I leave one of my books with him when I finally drop him off, just before crossing the bridge to Richmond.
3AM when I peel Cat off the old iBook, firing it up before adding Prince and T as friends. A good day, a very good day, and I crash, Goldfrapp running through my head:
I'm dressed in white noise, you know just what I want, so please...
Wonderful, Electric
Wonderful, Electric
Wonderful, Electric
....
7AM when the sun wakes me, after this, the shortest night of the year. 4 hours light sleep.
Goddamn it.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Sunday, June 08, 2008
GUST POSTE by KATTT
HUU MAnn Why NO ELatsioks? Play ealstics with Isiz Throh Elsastics Thro the EKLastics Why no throooooow Whynmove boxes on boxes why amke nooise whjy why why no ealstiocs wwwhyyyy>? Want Elasitcs nooow Waaant ELastiks nooow noooooowwwwwww Nooooowwww Waaaant!
Me n' RMT (June 1, Afternoon)
So I'm in the parking lot outside the venue while MSI rip the house down, watching punks go by, and make a few calls. First is RMT.
So, we're on the phone, and the call is hard, she says something about marriage, I break down, try to sleep, can't, wake up and in the morning I send her a shitty email talking about money and crap
-Ah. So a little bitterness escaped from the reservation, did it?
....
Yeah.
-Listen, I know you're smart enough, mature enough, to fix things.
Yeah, I sent her an email apologizing for it. It was crappy of me, assholish.
-Well, there you go. You're doing the right things.
When I first talked to RMT, he asked if I was a Stoic. I wonder if I'm doing it right. Is there some sort of Stoic reading to be done?
When I first broke the news to e-Man, whenever that was, and I asked hm to tell Marshall, his words were something like: we've all been worried a long time. Now you can finally start to heal.
I guess the blood was seeping through the bandages for months. Friends do notice these things.
Bleeding through a tourniquet smile.
So, we're on the phone, and the call is hard, she says something about marriage, I break down, try to sleep, can't, wake up and in the morning I send her a shitty email talking about money and crap
-Ah. So a little bitterness escaped from the reservation, did it?
....
Yeah.
-Listen, I know you're smart enough, mature enough, to fix things.
Yeah, I sent her an email apologizing for it. It was crappy of me, assholish.
-Well, there you go. You're doing the right things.
When I first talked to RMT, he asked if I was a Stoic. I wonder if I'm doing it right. Is there some sort of Stoic reading to be done?
When I first broke the news to e-Man, whenever that was, and I asked hm to tell Marshall, his words were something like: we've all been worried a long time. Now you can finally start to heal.
I guess the blood was seeping through the bandages for months. Friends do notice these things.
Bleeding through a tourniquet smile.
Steel Wool for the Lover’s Soul (June 1)
The second conversation is far harder, now that the emotion has cleared from her voice and its clear how far she has moved on, come to terms with me, clear that she let me go three months ago and has not much more to say.
Things are much clearer now, how hard the ground has become, and she is here because she loves me, to help me, but she has moved on and some things will never come again except in memory. But she knows about Barb and wants to help me through.
We each try to joke, and accidentally cut the other deeply. The connection is crappy and everything is that much harder for the repeating, I cannot raise my voice with my guests in the next room, cannot help but struggle with the words, cannot stop the tears when they come, either. The connection cuts out moments after she makes a particularly misjudged joke about marriage, and I am left to wonder if she hung up. Dear God, how I despise the Korean phone system.
I wish you had understood you could have asked me.
-I needed to come to this decision on my own.
The ground is hard, the future faint and thin and remote and beyond imagining now, for I have misjudged and not been given the whole picture, and been guilty of the faintest optimism at the worst possible time. The accommodation was made years ago, and it was she who had accommodated me. I think of straws, and like a drowning man, I cannot stop my hands from reaching for them, cannot stop. And she, gently but firmly, must turn even these aside, like holding down a man in a seizure.
It is hard, but necessary, there can be nothing now but truth, and the time for illusions and white lies is long past, long gone.
We will salvage what we can.
-Yes, we will.
Things are much clearer now, how hard the ground has become, and she is here because she loves me, to help me, but she has moved on and some things will never come again except in memory. But she knows about Barb and wants to help me through.
We each try to joke, and accidentally cut the other deeply. The connection is crappy and everything is that much harder for the repeating, I cannot raise my voice with my guests in the next room, cannot help but struggle with the words, cannot stop the tears when they come, either. The connection cuts out moments after she makes a particularly misjudged joke about marriage, and I am left to wonder if she hung up. Dear God, how I despise the Korean phone system.
I wish you had understood you could have asked me.
-I needed to come to this decision on my own.
The ground is hard, the future faint and thin and remote and beyond imagining now, for I have misjudged and not been given the whole picture, and been guilty of the faintest optimism at the worst possible time. The accommodation was made years ago, and it was she who had accommodated me. I think of straws, and like a drowning man, I cannot stop my hands from reaching for them, cannot stop. And she, gently but firmly, must turn even these aside, like holding down a man in a seizure.
It is hard, but necessary, there can be nothing now but truth, and the time for illusions and white lies is long past, long gone.
We will salvage what we can.
-Yes, we will.
Generic Whiny Punkband (May 31)
Niece will arrive today, together with her mom and her friend A, Mom and daughter having dyed their hair pink for the concert I'm driving them to on Sunday. I'd wanted to be gone back with them all last night, but she has a sewing class today.
A sewing class? That's a good sign, mom.
-Well, still, she's like your brother. Thinks she knows everything already.
Niece's hope is to be some sort of designer someday, so at least she has ambition, though there's a lot of had road between here and there. Her mom, God love her, is at least working again, which is something, given her condition. If life were a football game, Niece's Mom would be some poor schlub from the concession stand who, wearing the wrong team's colours, accidentally gets hit on the head and wanders out on the field, wondering what this football-shaped thing is that's landed in her hands just as she looks up into the murderous eyes of the onrushing defensive line of the New York Giants.
I digress.
Niece, being a cunning but completely transparent manipulator, has enveigled events so that she can see Mindless Self Indulgence, a group with a name so generic I have to write it down in order to remember it. She needs a chaperone for her and her friend in order to see the show, and I agreed to do it, but Niece and her mom decided that there was no way I'd enjoy it, and so she's taking them even though she hates the group, which is only fair, since she paid for the tickets initially. I think they imagine that the group is too hardcore for the likes of me, which I find hilarious, sitting here listing to Front Line Assembly rip its way through Millenium And Vigilante. I did give MSI a listen, and it quickly became apparent I could sit through their show, seeing as they constantly reminded me of other, better punk and electronica bands, who were, you know, actually musically inclined. Maybe I chose the tracks poorly, I dunno. But hey, probably not a time for acquiring new musical tastes anyway.
A sewing class? That's a good sign, mom.
-Well, still, she's like your brother. Thinks she knows everything already.
Niece's hope is to be some sort of designer someday, so at least she has ambition, though there's a lot of had road between here and there. Her mom, God love her, is at least working again, which is something, given her condition. If life were a football game, Niece's Mom would be some poor schlub from the concession stand who, wearing the wrong team's colours, accidentally gets hit on the head and wanders out on the field, wondering what this football-shaped thing is that's landed in her hands just as she looks up into the murderous eyes of the onrushing defensive line of the New York Giants.
I digress.
Niece, being a cunning but completely transparent manipulator, has enveigled events so that she can see Mindless Self Indulgence, a group with a name so generic I have to write it down in order to remember it. She needs a chaperone for her and her friend in order to see the show, and I agreed to do it, but Niece and her mom decided that there was no way I'd enjoy it, and so she's taking them even though she hates the group, which is only fair, since she paid for the tickets initially. I think they imagine that the group is too hardcore for the likes of me, which I find hilarious, sitting here listing to Front Line Assembly rip its way through Millenium And Vigilante. I did give MSI a listen, and it quickly became apparent I could sit through their show, seeing as they constantly reminded me of other, better punk and electronica bands, who were, you know, actually musically inclined. Maybe I chose the tracks poorly, I dunno. But hey, probably not a time for acquiring new musical tastes anyway.
Stone Garden II (May 30)
Better living through chemicals. The over the counter stuff is enough to knock my semi delerious self into a fugue state long enough to sleep 5 hours or so, while Mom vents her frustrations on a weedy patch by the front door. Somewhat recharged at last, time to begin making arrangements for L's things. Her Aunt S. is very concerned for me when I call, extending an unexpected wing to gather me in, solicitous, angry.
This isn't fair to expect that of you, not at all.
It has to be done, I say, there is no one but me.
I do not add that L almost expected me to throw her things out the window. Aunt S offers any help she can, and we will see. I have been needing for a very long time to go through everything i own, as well, so this will not be quick. I remember as she speaks that Aunt S has been through something similar, has been in my shoes. She is, if anything, taking my side. It's complicated, I say, no one is to blame here. Dancing around things I cannot mention. She and I will be fine. We all will be fine. But time will have its pound of flesh. We talk of that dark place we both know so well, that must be crossed. She also advises eating well, and exercise. Swimming is good, she says. The water supports you, the repetitive motion calms.
Putting down the phone, I see mom, upset, emptying the dishwasher. Aunt S really enjoyed seeing the show with us last month, I say, which is the wrong thing to say, as mom begins to tirade about dad's behaviour there. Can't stand the theatre, but can't stand to be left home, it boils down to. As the conversation winds down and I get ready to go for a walk, I say something and mom says, Here, thrusts something in my hand. A stone. What? A heart shaped stone, like some cartoon valentine, rounded but rough.
What is this?
Found it in the garden, she says. Found it while I was digging.
This isn't fair to expect that of you, not at all.
It has to be done, I say, there is no one but me.
I do not add that L almost expected me to throw her things out the window. Aunt S offers any help she can, and we will see. I have been needing for a very long time to go through everything i own, as well, so this will not be quick. I remember as she speaks that Aunt S has been through something similar, has been in my shoes. She is, if anything, taking my side. It's complicated, I say, no one is to blame here. Dancing around things I cannot mention. She and I will be fine. We all will be fine. But time will have its pound of flesh. We talk of that dark place we both know so well, that must be crossed. She also advises eating well, and exercise. Swimming is good, she says. The water supports you, the repetitive motion calms.
Putting down the phone, I see mom, upset, emptying the dishwasher. Aunt S really enjoyed seeing the show with us last month, I say, which is the wrong thing to say, as mom begins to tirade about dad's behaviour there. Can't stand the theatre, but can't stand to be left home, it boils down to. As the conversation winds down and I get ready to go for a walk, I say something and mom says, Here, thrusts something in my hand. A stone. What? A heart shaped stone, like some cartoon valentine, rounded but rough.
What is this?
Found it in the garden, she says. Found it while I was digging.
Spoiler Warning
May 27. Another placeholder. I think this one needs a little bit of distance and an edit, maybe. Also, it's a companion piece of sorts to Stone Garden, which I wrote in 2002. Check back later.
May 28. The Black Posse Rides. Or: home is where you hang the shotgun.
Wracked with nerves all day, but finally get to Parksville about 6. The cool car deck of the ferry is calm eough, the ambient music I have cued up relaxing enough, that I get a precious 30 minutes of sleep, before I'm jolted awake by the forgotten and unfortunate presence of Gorillaz' Clint Eastwood. Angry music, good for venting, not for resting.
I had forgotten how purely physical the experience of grief is, how lodged in the body. Even in the mind, it feels physical, like ice skating. Keep your thoughts moving forward, narrow, lightly - stop, press down, or think of anything in detail, and the ice cracks and pain comes welling up, overwhelming. I had forgotten the details of grief, so constant and unrelenting those first weeks of 1998, I must have blocked them out. But part of me now watches detatched, taking what notes it can.
My mind is clear, lucid, but helpless to fight biology. I try to read Robert Kirkman's Invincible, but cannot manage more than a few pages at a time. Arriving home, Mom is as tired as I am, welcomes me in and we talk, moving over ground familiar and worn. So many times we've had to pull through sadness together. Dinner is beef stew and screwdrivers with decent OJ, me hoping to take the edge off long enough to eventually sleep, and mom joins in as well, mourning things that will never be. It quickly becomes apparent that I am too restess, pacing like a caged animal. She talks and I cannot focus as she speaks of untold times before she met dad, of stringers-along and days in Jamaica. She offers what help she can, but is hamstrung by being a youngest member of the greatest generation, the complicated relational algebra of generations X and Y is a foreign country to her, let alone the vector calculus that its more adventuresome members get up to.
Your father won't understand the lesbian thing, she says, best not to mention it. You know he's never quite wrapped his head around his sister.
Ah yes, poor unhappy, haunted aunt N. The baleful ghost of my grandfather, who smashed and drank his way through his wife and four children for decades before cancer finally took the old bastard down, gloats.
I wish you had had the chance to meet him, my dad said once.
So do I, I thought, thinking dark things, but not for the reasons you might think.
Dad phones later, from Peace River, his birthday today, they marked the occasion as any workplace might and he is cheerful about that, concerned for me. We'll talk when he passes through, I assure him. Hard to do things over the phone. I'd thought they might be more angry for me, and there is some of that, but more sadness. There are no black hats here, however clumsily this has unfolded. Well, maybe mourning hats.
It was ten years ago, I say. She nods.
I remember that old and empty place, ten years ago, I remember wailing, wracked, in the middle of the night, Mom holding me as she used to.
I don't want to forget her, I said
You never will, said Mom, you never will.
The old pain comes, now, wells up and I am hardly in the conversation any more.
Try to develop new hobbies, mom says. The ones you have require you to be calm, and you won't be for a long time. No.
Certainly not tonight. Sleep is elusive as ever. In the morning I will write the angriest thing I have ever concieved. But not angry with her. Never with her.
I had forgotten how purely physical the experience of grief is, how lodged in the body. Even in the mind, it feels physical, like ice skating. Keep your thoughts moving forward, narrow, lightly - stop, press down, or think of anything in detail, and the ice cracks and pain comes welling up, overwhelming. I had forgotten the details of grief, so constant and unrelenting those first weeks of 1998, I must have blocked them out. But part of me now watches detatched, taking what notes it can.
My mind is clear, lucid, but helpless to fight biology. I try to read Robert Kirkman's Invincible, but cannot manage more than a few pages at a time. Arriving home, Mom is as tired as I am, welcomes me in and we talk, moving over ground familiar and worn. So many times we've had to pull through sadness together. Dinner is beef stew and screwdrivers with decent OJ, me hoping to take the edge off long enough to eventually sleep, and mom joins in as well, mourning things that will never be. It quickly becomes apparent that I am too restess, pacing like a caged animal. She talks and I cannot focus as she speaks of untold times before she met dad, of stringers-along and days in Jamaica. She offers what help she can, but is hamstrung by being a youngest member of the greatest generation, the complicated relational algebra of generations X and Y is a foreign country to her, let alone the vector calculus that its more adventuresome members get up to.
Your father won't understand the lesbian thing, she says, best not to mention it. You know he's never quite wrapped his head around his sister.
Ah yes, poor unhappy, haunted aunt N. The baleful ghost of my grandfather, who smashed and drank his way through his wife and four children for decades before cancer finally took the old bastard down, gloats.
I wish you had had the chance to meet him, my dad said once.
So do I, I thought, thinking dark things, but not for the reasons you might think.
Dad phones later, from Peace River, his birthday today, they marked the occasion as any workplace might and he is cheerful about that, concerned for me. We'll talk when he passes through, I assure him. Hard to do things over the phone. I'd thought they might be more angry for me, and there is some of that, but more sadness. There are no black hats here, however clumsily this has unfolded. Well, maybe mourning hats.
It was ten years ago, I say. She nods.
I remember that old and empty place, ten years ago, I remember wailing, wracked, in the middle of the night, Mom holding me as she used to.
I don't want to forget her, I said
You never will, said Mom, you never will.
The old pain comes, now, wells up and I am hardly in the conversation any more.
Try to develop new hobbies, mom says. The ones you have require you to be calm, and you won't be for a long time. No.
Certainly not tonight. Sleep is elusive as ever. In the morning I will write the angriest thing I have ever concieved. But not angry with her. Never with her.
Stone Garden (Spring 2002)
A placeholder. I have to find the original file, and one of my backups has failed. As my life is being shuffled through boxes, this might take a while.
May 28: I have seen the lightning, amid the hailstorm of doves
0230, Wednesday.
Crap. No matter how exhausted I am, I cannot stay down. On the other hand, the continued sleep deprivation is better than Peyote, as I suddenly shift up into a blissful mood and the Universe at last gives the symbol I have called for, though of course, it and its meaning is mine and mine alone. The final tumbler clicks, I see it and understand as the board unfolds again and again and again, lighting a path through the maze to suggest a future action that will, in a stroke, give happiness to everyone concerned, her family, my family, her lover, everyone. I have seen twenty seven moves ahead and squared the circle, and a small smile finally forms. Everything changes and the moment stays with me, buoys me as later, the grief pulls me under yet again.
As the night drags on, unable to sleep I attack the front room in a sluggish attempt at cleaning to prepare for Niece's upcoming visit. Driving out to drop off some recyclables off, I stop by Unnamed Interiors Store and drop her old employee mini-manual in their mailbox. Figure that one out, you meddling biddies. I smile in honor of my old University residence and our group, Tri Kuppa Brew, and our pledge to make other people's lives a little more surreal. Oh, I got plans for you, you yuppie parasites. By morning I am finished enough to attempt napping, then finally settle on taking the 3:15 boat.
above all, patience
Crap. No matter how exhausted I am, I cannot stay down. On the other hand, the continued sleep deprivation is better than Peyote, as I suddenly shift up into a blissful mood and the Universe at last gives the symbol I have called for, though of course, it and its meaning is mine and mine alone. The final tumbler clicks, I see it and understand as the board unfolds again and again and again, lighting a path through the maze to suggest a future action that will, in a stroke, give happiness to everyone concerned, her family, my family, her lover, everyone. I have seen twenty seven moves ahead and squared the circle, and a small smile finally forms. Everything changes and the moment stays with me, buoys me as later, the grief pulls me under yet again.
As the night drags on, unable to sleep I attack the front room in a sluggish attempt at cleaning to prepare for Niece's upcoming visit. Driving out to drop off some recyclables off, I stop by Unnamed Interiors Store and drop her old employee mini-manual in their mailbox. Figure that one out, you meddling biddies. I smile in honor of my old University residence and our group, Tri Kuppa Brew, and our pledge to make other people's lives a little more surreal. Oh, I got plans for you, you yuppie parasites. By morning I am finished enough to attempt napping, then finally settle on taking the 3:15 boat.
above all, patience
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Meanwhile...
Remember for a moment that what you see here are snapshots, and elsewhere at long last email flows back and forth, the unexplained dam of silence finally broken.
Forgive me if i seem cruel because my words are clumsy, it is all new and I am in pain
-I would not blame you if you were, I would be if you had betrayed me
You didn't, you can't steal what you are welcome to take.
-You thought I would eventually betray you?
I thought I was clear, overseas is a long way, it is a long time, I granted you absolution, all I asked was that you be safe. I thought you knew that, all you had to do was ask me. The hurtful thing is that you were silent so long. I thought I had driven you away.
The true issue is, she needs to be gone longer than I can follow. and no one can build their life around an absence indefinitely. There is no accomodation, no arrangement, that can assauge that.
-How can you be so understanding?
I was in your shoes once. We all have stories. When you are in love with two people, each unaware of the other, and one is merely words on a screen, the outcome is inevitable. When you're young, you think there must be a way out that doesn't hurt someone. There isn't. The best you can do is offer a choice.
I wish you had understood you could have asked me. I wish.
Tell me a little about her.
-Her name is L, exactly like me.
Aha. Exactly like?
-They call us L and l.
Is she vanilla? Republican?
-No, and no. She's away in canada.
Canada? okay then. Small mercies accumulate. the future widens a hair's breadth, solidifies, ever so slightly.
-I let her think you were my ex. I wasn't truthful. I feel like I am in a bad soap opera.
You latinas and your soap operas. Tell her when she gets back from Canada, tell her what's happened, tell her why you're upset. If she loves you she will understand. You must do this.
-Yes.
Forgive me if i seem cruel because my words are clumsy, it is all new and I am in pain
-I would not blame you if you were, I would be if you had betrayed me
You didn't, you can't steal what you are welcome to take.
-You thought I would eventually betray you?
I thought I was clear, overseas is a long way, it is a long time, I granted you absolution, all I asked was that you be safe. I thought you knew that, all you had to do was ask me. The hurtful thing is that you were silent so long. I thought I had driven you away.
The true issue is, she needs to be gone longer than I can follow. and no one can build their life around an absence indefinitely. There is no accomodation, no arrangement, that can assauge that.
-How can you be so understanding?
I was in your shoes once. We all have stories. When you are in love with two people, each unaware of the other, and one is merely words on a screen, the outcome is inevitable. When you're young, you think there must be a way out that doesn't hurt someone. There isn't. The best you can do is offer a choice.
I wish you had understood you could have asked me. I wish.
Tell me a little about her.
-Her name is L, exactly like me.
Aha. Exactly like?
-They call us L and l.
Is she vanilla? Republican?
-No, and no. She's away in canada.
Canada? okay then. Small mercies accumulate. the future widens a hair's breadth, solidifies, ever so slightly.
-I let her think you were my ex. I wasn't truthful. I feel like I am in a bad soap opera.
You latinas and your soap operas. Tell her when she gets back from Canada, tell her what's happened, tell her why you're upset. If she loves you she will understand. You must do this.
-Yes.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Panoptic City; or, the fine art of the self inflicted kidney punch.
I ride on the cresting waves of some advanced level of cumulative exhaustion. 4 hours of bad sleep a night is not going to cut it indefinitely. But, things to do, and the body will not rest until it crashes and will not stay down when it does, lurching awake with knotted innards at 7AM, when the heat and the light of summer pour in. After that long and miserable winter and no spring, now the heat. And that damned, damned sun. Dad calls in the evening as I prepare to fire off a special resume to a target that has suddenly been alerted to recieve. My mom I knew would be on the brink of tears, I did not expect it of him, I think, only death does this to him. Hell of a kick in the nuts son, he says, choked, mentioning a time before he knew my mother, understanding the sudden need for space and a new job. Before I brought her home to meet him, he had never mentioned a time before my mother, and suddenly for that new audience he unfolded stories I had never seen before and I saw him yet again with new eyes. We are both strangled, exhausted, he having worked a 12 hour day. My family loved her, and she loved us. I still love her, she still in some way loves us, but that future will never happen now, not in that way, maybe not at all.
The panopticon is a popular literary symbol, based on a theoretical prison suggested centuries ago. Imagine a prison shaped like a cylinder, consisting of an outer ring made of glass cells surrounding a central tower where a single guard can watch the entire population at once, all constantly visible, silouetted against the transparent walls behind them. Imprisoned by light.
Had lunch with RMT today, who is the person to call on when your love life turns into a Strindberg play. Crimes and Crimes, in this case. Funny, I always thought it'd be Miss Julie, what with all those boots and all that power exchange. Anyway, he had good advice, and was as always an excellent sounding board. And if he was once wondering why I chose to confide certain personal details to him long ago, I think today turned out to be the reason why. 'Cause otherwise certain things and attitudes might appear completely mad to the outsider. You are not insane to imagine the future, he agrees, but no matter what though, the next few weeks will be hell on earth.
But on other topics, we noted what a strange and powerful tool Facebook has become, and it struck me later today just how it enables previously unimaginable correlations and linked actions. After firing off the distress flare on Saturday, I've been buoyed up by the incoming onrush of friends, each contribution small of itself, each small gift of advice (from flaky to prescient to vindictive and solicitous) or assistance adding to the pile of tools to work with, things to consider. I ride at the center of a wheel and feel a legion at my back. It is at our moments of greatest loss that we discover the immense reserves of compassion that everyone carries, held in reserve against such a day. I am large; I contain multitudes. I also think in allusions and I can't just turn it off. Fourteen years of university will do that to you. I see patterns everywhere.
And yet, like most swords, it carries that second edge. I have been sleepwalking for a year, and now I am awake and my mind is never more alive and acute than when it is in agony. Only death does this to me. Why do I hate writing? This is why.
Late in the day, I check Facebook by reflex, and note in my newsfeed that she's added an application. For the last several months, Facebook was the point of contact of last resort, as we threw chains of pixellated flowers and hatching eggs and valentines across the Pacific to each other, building up woefully weak defences against something coming that we sensed rather than understood. Fragments shored against ruins. So as she fell into radio silence, I would check it still, just in case, to see if she stirred at all or was doing okay. And somewhere in there, I nudged that little setting to report her actions more often. I clicked the news item out of habit to see what she was up to today, wondered at the name of it as Her profile comes up. "Miss You". Me?
And the pattern corellation function in my exhausted brain fires before I can stop it, realizes that if that was sent by someone, someone currently away from Korea, and that someone also posts on a wall, and a name repeats more than once-
Jesus Fuck. I cannot hit the back button fast enough, there are things you cannot unsee. I know who she is, now, probably. No wonder this was the weekend to clear the air. Fuck Fuck Fuck. I am an accidental stalker. From nowhere, a lyric from somebody rolls across the airwaves of my mind:
You look at her the way you used to look at me.
I fall back, gutpunched. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The pattern corellation function reports back it has no idea who might have sung that original lyric, or what the genders involved actually were, and I contemplate the prattle in the front part of my brain in stunned disbelief.
Was not ready for that. Eventually, sure, okay, but not today, not like that. Jesus. Fuck. I've creeped myself out beyond all recognition. The beast at the back of my brain murmurs about wondering just when someone met someone, as it's probably all there if you look for it. Fuck. Fuck. Get thee behind me. I am not this. I will not cross that line. There are crimes and crimes. She tortures herself because she imagines she has betrayed me. And I, in turn, see for an instant my own reflection in that mirror, unrecognizable. I get out of the bulding, try to get away, go home, do something, anything else.
yeah.
So, anyway, turns out I had to tweak that resume to get it out tomorrow morning, so I had to go back, get online. I gingerly open a tab and I flick the news setting to bring me news stories from that certain user a little less often. Maybe time to back off the net oh so slightly, step back from the light. The flare has fired and the cavalry are on their way, serried ranks assembled. I am off to the Island tomorrow, and for the first time since discovering facebook a year ago I'm glad it doesn't work on My Mom's ancient iMac.
I'll buy her a newer one, yes.
But not this week.
The panopticon is a popular literary symbol, based on a theoretical prison suggested centuries ago. Imagine a prison shaped like a cylinder, consisting of an outer ring made of glass cells surrounding a central tower where a single guard can watch the entire population at once, all constantly visible, silouetted against the transparent walls behind them. Imprisoned by light.
Had lunch with RMT today, who is the person to call on when your love life turns into a Strindberg play. Crimes and Crimes, in this case. Funny, I always thought it'd be Miss Julie, what with all those boots and all that power exchange. Anyway, he had good advice, and was as always an excellent sounding board. And if he was once wondering why I chose to confide certain personal details to him long ago, I think today turned out to be the reason why. 'Cause otherwise certain things and attitudes might appear completely mad to the outsider. You are not insane to imagine the future, he agrees, but no matter what though, the next few weeks will be hell on earth.
But on other topics, we noted what a strange and powerful tool Facebook has become, and it struck me later today just how it enables previously unimaginable correlations and linked actions. After firing off the distress flare on Saturday, I've been buoyed up by the incoming onrush of friends, each contribution small of itself, each small gift of advice (from flaky to prescient to vindictive and solicitous) or assistance adding to the pile of tools to work with, things to consider. I ride at the center of a wheel and feel a legion at my back. It is at our moments of greatest loss that we discover the immense reserves of compassion that everyone carries, held in reserve against such a day. I am large; I contain multitudes. I also think in allusions and I can't just turn it off. Fourteen years of university will do that to you. I see patterns everywhere.
And yet, like most swords, it carries that second edge. I have been sleepwalking for a year, and now I am awake and my mind is never more alive and acute than when it is in agony. Only death does this to me. Why do I hate writing? This is why.
Late in the day, I check Facebook by reflex, and note in my newsfeed that she's added an application. For the last several months, Facebook was the point of contact of last resort, as we threw chains of pixellated flowers and hatching eggs and valentines across the Pacific to each other, building up woefully weak defences against something coming that we sensed rather than understood. Fragments shored against ruins. So as she fell into radio silence, I would check it still, just in case, to see if she stirred at all or was doing okay. And somewhere in there, I nudged that little setting to report her actions more often. I clicked the news item out of habit to see what she was up to today, wondered at the name of it as Her profile comes up. "Miss You". Me?
And the pattern corellation function in my exhausted brain fires before I can stop it, realizes that if that was sent by someone, someone currently away from Korea, and that someone also posts on a wall, and a name repeats more than once-
Jesus Fuck. I cannot hit the back button fast enough, there are things you cannot unsee. I know who she is, now, probably. No wonder this was the weekend to clear the air. Fuck Fuck Fuck. I am an accidental stalker. From nowhere, a lyric from somebody rolls across the airwaves of my mind:
You look at her the way you used to look at me.
I fall back, gutpunched. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The pattern corellation function reports back it has no idea who might have sung that original lyric, or what the genders involved actually were, and I contemplate the prattle in the front part of my brain in stunned disbelief.
Was not ready for that. Eventually, sure, okay, but not today, not like that. Jesus. Fuck. I've creeped myself out beyond all recognition. The beast at the back of my brain murmurs about wondering just when someone met someone, as it's probably all there if you look for it. Fuck. Fuck. Get thee behind me. I am not this. I will not cross that line. There are crimes and crimes. She tortures herself because she imagines she has betrayed me. And I, in turn, see for an instant my own reflection in that mirror, unrecognizable. I get out of the bulding, try to get away, go home, do something, anything else.
yeah.
So, anyway, turns out I had to tweak that resume to get it out tomorrow morning, so I had to go back, get online. I gingerly open a tab and I flick the news setting to bring me news stories from that certain user a little less often. Maybe time to back off the net oh so slightly, step back from the light. The flare has fired and the cavalry are on their way, serried ranks assembled. I am off to the Island tomorrow, and for the first time since discovering facebook a year ago I'm glad it doesn't work on My Mom's ancient iMac.
I'll buy her a newer one, yes.
But not this week.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Ripcords
So, went in to work today and pretty much realized I would be a basket case -wait, I should back up.
So, after not getting much sleep the last couple days, I found myself on Facebook getting unsolicited advice from my first high school crush about how to get on with my life now. It's beyond weird at this point, how Facebook can seemingly collapse time and space so the different eras and areas of your life can interact almost at will. Even in my state, I know this is not the natural order of things. I note the time, yelp, and bolt out to the laundromat, where my clothes are drying. Of course, I arrive too late and my stuff's locked up overnight. No problem, I'll pick it up when they open at 7AM. Then, of course, comes several hours of trying to get to sleep, explaining myself to no one in the dark while the cat circles, entirely convinced I've lost my mind.
Sure enough, when I stagger out of bed and get to the laundromat, they've decided not to open today until what I presume will be 8ish. I stop by the bank, transfer some money, then go to get a coffee, then realize my card is locked inside the bank machine.
So, back to the bank at 7:50, where an employee assures me I can get the card once different staff arrive at 8:30. And of course, the laundromat is still closed at 8.
So, home, grab a shower, back to the bank, grab the crad, grab the clothes from the laundromat, hustle to work, throw appropriate pants on and sit down at 9 sharp to try and keep myself occupied.
I'm immediately struck by three things:
1)There is NOTHING on my docket.
2)I am still completely exhausted.
3)I am in fact, a basket case, and keep having to stop and get ahold of myself when the salutory effects of documenting a program error keyword proves insufficent to distract my forebrain from the implosion of my personal life.
So, after an hour and a half of shredding stuff and generally keeping a grip on things (usually my desk, with white kuckles at times) I make it to the 10:30 staff meeting, where comes the news that senior implementer M is quitting, and thus I am suddenly next in line to head the section. My dreams of quietly thinking things over for a couple weeks are up in flames, so I ask to meet with the Vice President, who although she doesn't know it, is now my Ex-Prospective-Stepmother-In-Law.
I somehow manage to outline the basic situation without breaking down entirely (minus the whole "other person" thing, which is really not my conversation to have) and take the week off, mentioning that given the circumstances, I'm prepared to stay on for the rest of the year, but will likely move on around the new year. So just like that, the ripcord comes out, the parachute fires, and I've begun the process of leaving a job that, while it had its moments, was definitely unhealthy for me. Huh. So now I have 7 months to solve the riddle of what the hell to do next in my oh-so-Gen-X uncareer. I couldn't get anything when I left grad school that was remotely a)local and b)anywhere near any of my fields, so let's see if things are any less crazy now.
I guess that big thing way down there is the ground. I wonder if it will be friends with me.
So, after not getting much sleep the last couple days, I found myself on Facebook getting unsolicited advice from my first high school crush about how to get on with my life now. It's beyond weird at this point, how Facebook can seemingly collapse time and space so the different eras and areas of your life can interact almost at will. Even in my state, I know this is not the natural order of things. I note the time, yelp, and bolt out to the laundromat, where my clothes are drying. Of course, I arrive too late and my stuff's locked up overnight. No problem, I'll pick it up when they open at 7AM. Then, of course, comes several hours of trying to get to sleep, explaining myself to no one in the dark while the cat circles, entirely convinced I've lost my mind.
Sure enough, when I stagger out of bed and get to the laundromat, they've decided not to open today until what I presume will be 8ish. I stop by the bank, transfer some money, then go to get a coffee, then realize my card is locked inside the bank machine.
So, back to the bank at 7:50, where an employee assures me I can get the card once different staff arrive at 8:30. And of course, the laundromat is still closed at 8.
So, home, grab a shower, back to the bank, grab the crad, grab the clothes from the laundromat, hustle to work, throw appropriate pants on and sit down at 9 sharp to try and keep myself occupied.
I'm immediately struck by three things:
1)There is NOTHING on my docket.
2)I am still completely exhausted.
3)I am in fact, a basket case, and keep having to stop and get ahold of myself when the salutory effects of documenting a program error keyword proves insufficent to distract my forebrain from the implosion of my personal life.
So, after an hour and a half of shredding stuff and generally keeping a grip on things (usually my desk, with white kuckles at times) I make it to the 10:30 staff meeting, where comes the news that senior implementer M is quitting, and thus I am suddenly next in line to head the section. My dreams of quietly thinking things over for a couple weeks are up in flames, so I ask to meet with the Vice President, who although she doesn't know it, is now my Ex-Prospective-Stepmother-In-Law.
I somehow manage to outline the basic situation without breaking down entirely (minus the whole "other person" thing, which is really not my conversation to have) and take the week off, mentioning that given the circumstances, I'm prepared to stay on for the rest of the year, but will likely move on around the new year. So just like that, the ripcord comes out, the parachute fires, and I've begun the process of leaving a job that, while it had its moments, was definitely unhealthy for me. Huh. So now I have 7 months to solve the riddle of what the hell to do next in my oh-so-Gen-X uncareer. I couldn't get anything when I left grad school that was remotely a)local and b)anywhere near any of my fields, so let's see if things are any less crazy now.
I guess that big thing way down there is the ground. I wonder if it will be friends with me.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Signs
...ridiculous, the waste, sad time, stretching before and after.
-Eliot, The Wasteland.
There is a line in the (excellent) book version of Out of Africa to the effect that when we cry out to the universe for a sign, one will appear, some symbol that we can seem and find meaning in, even if it's private and for the viewer only. I can't entirely unpack what follows for you, but come with.
Coincidence or not, it's funny how the random pop culture ephemera around us can sometimes align and form brief constellations of meaning at key times in our lives.
Most of last week, I was run off my feet, exhausted and tired, and stuck by things wistful and melancholy, and well, then at last on Saturday the leviathan broke through the ice. But it was odd to see nonetheless.
Thursday night I was struck - really struck - by how sombre the new Indiana Jones movie is. Silly and frothy and fun, yes, but there is a note throughout the film of sadness, of mourning for lost friends and family, both dead and alive. It hangs lightly on Ford's shoulders, but still: if we live long enough, we all get old, even Indiana Jones. And being a survivor means that you survive what others don't.
To my mind, it makes it a strong picture, superior to Last Crusade, which was fun and exaltant, but also a bit Jokey, a father/son adventure with Connery and Ford veering ever so slightly into hammy fun. Glorious, yes, triumphant, yes, but nowhere near as rich as what the older Ford, Spielberg, and Lucas and their cast of ringers manage with Crystal Skull. I saw it Thursday, with E-Man and H, E-Man still wearing his original fedora from when we were all teenagers, lining up to see the first one. Impossible to see it and not think of time passing, moving on. When the line is given, at the end,
"So much of life is wasted, waiting"
it was hard. And then I rushed across town to let Dad in the apartment on his way through town. Thoughts swirling, old and tired, both of us. Slept about 2AM.
Friday night, then, after a long day of getting up at 630AM for breakfast with Dad before he took off upcountry for another shutdown, perhaps his last or at least one of his last, then working 9 hours, picking up that fucking eBay package, gaming, and stopping by the office at midnight to check for news from or a chat with Wryette, as I had done religiously every night for a year, almost all in vain in the last three months. There I found this served up on Boing Boing, and found it hypnotic and strangely heartbreaking.
It's a song mashed up from tiny audiobits of Alice in Wonderland, and it's perhaps the Rave-iest thing I have ever seen. Alice has always been sad and a little disturbing to me, an incarnation of primal childhood terrors and the lost world that all adults dimly recall. (Those pansies terrify me, somehow) All children's stories are stories of loss for an adult, and particularly this adult. I cannot think of playmates and telling stories without thinking of the playmates and listeners who I will never see again, and something of this struck me at a very early age. Today, writing, it comes to me - I watched Wryette play with Alice in Kingdom Hearts, and would read to her sometimes from a dozen books. Never occuring to me that any of them might be a final time. I will pack up her children's collection for her future children sometime next week. It will be hard.
I was hoping to see and review Prince Caspian this week, but I'm not sure I will now. Lewis is steeped in that sense of childhood's transience, of the preciousness of time, of meeting someone for an instant and knowing that if you somehow ever meet them again, it will be as best of friends, forever. There is a scene in Dawn Treader to that effect which is more powerful than a hundred Milton stanzas. For all we ever have is an instant, and we can never keep anyone at our side when their story calls them away. What is heaven but the place where we never say goodbye? Who could argue with the appeal of that vision. Wouldn't it be lovely.
So no, I am not entirely sure I can deal with Narnia this week, even if it's only in the company of the bland young Caspian.
And so on Saturday, after the call, I went out as previously planned with jedischooldropout to see Crystal Skull again, but now with the primary goal of occupying the front part of my brain, and found that almost final line was not so much revelation but coda.
So much wasted, waiting.
Monday awaits.
-Eliot, The Wasteland.
There is a line in the (excellent) book version of Out of Africa to the effect that when we cry out to the universe for a sign, one will appear, some symbol that we can seem and find meaning in, even if it's private and for the viewer only. I can't entirely unpack what follows for you, but come with.
Coincidence or not, it's funny how the random pop culture ephemera around us can sometimes align and form brief constellations of meaning at key times in our lives.
Most of last week, I was run off my feet, exhausted and tired, and stuck by things wistful and melancholy, and well, then at last on Saturday the leviathan broke through the ice. But it was odd to see nonetheless.
Thursday night I was struck - really struck - by how sombre the new Indiana Jones movie is. Silly and frothy and fun, yes, but there is a note throughout the film of sadness, of mourning for lost friends and family, both dead and alive. It hangs lightly on Ford's shoulders, but still: if we live long enough, we all get old, even Indiana Jones. And being a survivor means that you survive what others don't.
To my mind, it makes it a strong picture, superior to Last Crusade, which was fun and exaltant, but also a bit Jokey, a father/son adventure with Connery and Ford veering ever so slightly into hammy fun. Glorious, yes, triumphant, yes, but nowhere near as rich as what the older Ford, Spielberg, and Lucas and their cast of ringers manage with Crystal Skull. I saw it Thursday, with E-Man and H, E-Man still wearing his original fedora from when we were all teenagers, lining up to see the first one. Impossible to see it and not think of time passing, moving on. When the line is given, at the end,
"So much of life is wasted, waiting"
it was hard. And then I rushed across town to let Dad in the apartment on his way through town. Thoughts swirling, old and tired, both of us. Slept about 2AM.
Friday night, then, after a long day of getting up at 630AM for breakfast with Dad before he took off upcountry for another shutdown, perhaps his last or at least one of his last, then working 9 hours, picking up that fucking eBay package, gaming, and stopping by the office at midnight to check for news from or a chat with Wryette, as I had done religiously every night for a year, almost all in vain in the last three months. There I found this served up on Boing Boing, and found it hypnotic and strangely heartbreaking.
It's a song mashed up from tiny audiobits of Alice in Wonderland, and it's perhaps the Rave-iest thing I have ever seen. Alice has always been sad and a little disturbing to me, an incarnation of primal childhood terrors and the lost world that all adults dimly recall. (Those pansies terrify me, somehow) All children's stories are stories of loss for an adult, and particularly this adult. I cannot think of playmates and telling stories without thinking of the playmates and listeners who I will never see again, and something of this struck me at a very early age. Today, writing, it comes to me - I watched Wryette play with Alice in Kingdom Hearts, and would read to her sometimes from a dozen books. Never occuring to me that any of them might be a final time. I will pack up her children's collection for her future children sometime next week. It will be hard.
I was hoping to see and review Prince Caspian this week, but I'm not sure I will now. Lewis is steeped in that sense of childhood's transience, of the preciousness of time, of meeting someone for an instant and knowing that if you somehow ever meet them again, it will be as best of friends, forever. There is a scene in Dawn Treader to that effect which is more powerful than a hundred Milton stanzas. For all we ever have is an instant, and we can never keep anyone at our side when their story calls them away. What is heaven but the place where we never say goodbye? Who could argue with the appeal of that vision. Wouldn't it be lovely.
So no, I am not entirely sure I can deal with Narnia this week, even if it's only in the company of the bland young Caspian.
And so on Saturday, after the call, I went out as previously planned with jedischooldropout to see Crystal Skull again, but now with the primary goal of occupying the front part of my brain, and found that almost final line was not so much revelation but coda.
So much wasted, waiting.
Monday awaits.
Völlig losgelöst / völlig schwerelos.
24-05-2008 18:47
And like that, the call, like a brick, finally comes through the window. Four years, 66 days, a few hours and change. I look around my apartment, surrounded my her things. Not ours, any more. If I squint, I can see the last outlines of our future together, fading like mist.
I feel I've failed, somehow. A thousand missed opportunites, misunderstood gestures, simple things that I will never get to make amends for. But even that is too simple.
The heart wants what it wants, and it does not want me, does not want what I represent, does not want what I have become, most of all does not want me as much as it wants this other woman who is there, present, while I, three thousand miles away, am only a distant fading ghostly custodian of her memories and keepsakes.
I did it for her. Became this caricature of myself, functionary, her father's employee. Did so much, gave up so much, would have given so much more, if she had only asked. I would have gone to the ends of the earth for her, would have followed her on every adventure, but she did not ask, will never ask, now.
She loves her. She won't be coming back for years. And it's time to let me go, to at long last cut that final cord and throw the call, like a brick, though my window while her cat - my cat - curls about my feet and does not, cannot understand what it means when I finally close the phone, open my throat, and for the second time in my life, understand what it means to wail.
And like that, the call, like a brick, finally comes through the window. Four years, 66 days, a few hours and change. I look around my apartment, surrounded my her things. Not ours, any more. If I squint, I can see the last outlines of our future together, fading like mist.
I feel I've failed, somehow. A thousand missed opportunites, misunderstood gestures, simple things that I will never get to make amends for. But even that is too simple.
The heart wants what it wants, and it does not want me, does not want what I represent, does not want what I have become, most of all does not want me as much as it wants this other woman who is there, present, while I, three thousand miles away, am only a distant fading ghostly custodian of her memories and keepsakes.
I did it for her. Became this caricature of myself, functionary, her father's employee. Did so much, gave up so much, would have given so much more, if she had only asked. I would have gone to the ends of the earth for her, would have followed her on every adventure, but she did not ask, will never ask, now.
She loves her. She won't be coming back for years. And it's time to let me go, to at long last cut that final cord and throw the call, like a brick, though my window while her cat - my cat - curls about my feet and does not, cannot understand what it means when I finally close the phone, open my throat, and for the second time in my life, understand what it means to wail.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Roundelay.
Went down to Seattle and did EmeraldCon on the weekend, and it was very good. Now why I did that is a story in itself, but that post is taking a while. In the meantime, I'll let Jennie Breeden of The Devil's Panties sum up my average experience of meeting some of my longtime heroes:
Ms. Breeden herself is pretty darn approachable, and while I wasn't familiar with her work before going, I sure do now. She didn't know where Richmond or BC is, though, so I may just have to send her a postcard.
Ms. Breeden herself is pretty darn approachable, and while I wasn't familiar with her work before going, I sure do now. She didn't know where Richmond or BC is, though, so I may just have to send her a postcard.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Carl Sagan meets Barbara Frum. Blood everywhere.
Speaking of the Onion, I think they've put a finger on why media literacy has been dropping for decades. Half the time when I tune in to the news to hear the experts, they come across like this:
In The Know: Situation In Nigeria Seems Pretty Complex
Harsh? Maybe. But when a media personality tries to talk about a subject they don't know much about, they don't always succeed in pulling it off. They're particularly bad with anything science related. A few months ago I almost drove off the road in a rage while hearing a show about the pine beetle epidemic on CKNW, where one guest was adopting a "take a lawnmower to the province" approach, while the other guest was saying that we should try to at least leave dead trees in place around river valleys and eroding slopes, lest we get sudden massive flooding. The host was hostile and acting as if this was the most lunatic hippy idea imaginable. "They have to cut everything and make their money now, before they have nothing left to cut!" Cue a few months later, and my hometown is pretty much under water.
No one's immune to this. I was really shocked when I recently saw this 1988 interview where Barbara Frum - who I had previously had nothing but respect for - seems to be trying to play gotcha! with Carl Sagan. Frum was a respected journalist with decades of experience in political analysis, but here she comes off really badly and almost ignorant.
I suppose it's natural for people who are experts in one field - like, say, politics - to think of everything else in terms of politics; from an interesting crooked timber post here comes the argument that many fields - engineering, science, management - tend to disregard anything outside their own field, complete with this great quote from CP Snow:
A good many times I have been present at gatherings of people who, by the standards of the traditional culture, are thought highly educated and who have with considerable gusto been expressing their incredulity of scientists. Once or twice I have been provoked and have asked the company how many of them could describe the Second Law of Thermodynamics. The response was cold: it was also negative. Yet I was asking something which is the scientific equivalent of: Have you read a work of Shakespeare’s?
I now believe that if I had asked an even simpler question—such as, What do you mean by mass, or acceleration, which is the scientific equivalent of saying, Can you read?—not more than one in ten of the highly educated would have felt that I was speaking the same language. So the great edifice of modern physics goes up, and the majority of the cleverest people in the western world have about as much insight into it as their neolithic ancestors would have had...
It's a fantastic line of thought, and I now want to seek out the original source material; but it does drive the point home to me why we're having such problems now around global warming and the pushback against evolution; people who are not scientists, but philosophers, or religious figures, or politicians, see science as just another social construct, one in which the truths are relative and can be manipulated. But the fact is, you can be an expert in your own field and still be completely ignorant about another one. There is such a thing as reality, science is all about the real, and scientists are canaries in the global coal mine. Eppur si muove.
The facts that science studies are indifferent to economics, politics, or religion; it wouldn't take very much to cause (for instance) widespread global famine, and there are few belief systems that than outlast the starvation of every adherent. The media might want to interview a few Mayans about that. Ask any farmer: a few degrees' difference in temperature here or there at the wrong time of year, and localized disaster awaits. A bit of drought, and you have catastrophe. And if you have that going on in many places at once...
But the media have not been asking the farmers, now have they?
In The Know: Situation In Nigeria Seems Pretty Complex
Harsh? Maybe. But when a media personality tries to talk about a subject they don't know much about, they don't always succeed in pulling it off. They're particularly bad with anything science related. A few months ago I almost drove off the road in a rage while hearing a show about the pine beetle epidemic on CKNW, where one guest was adopting a "take a lawnmower to the province" approach, while the other guest was saying that we should try to at least leave dead trees in place around river valleys and eroding slopes, lest we get sudden massive flooding. The host was hostile and acting as if this was the most lunatic hippy idea imaginable. "They have to cut everything and make their money now, before they have nothing left to cut!" Cue a few months later, and my hometown is pretty much under water.
No one's immune to this. I was really shocked when I recently saw this 1988 interview where Barbara Frum - who I had previously had nothing but respect for - seems to be trying to play gotcha! with Carl Sagan. Frum was a respected journalist with decades of experience in political analysis, but here she comes off really badly and almost ignorant.
I suppose it's natural for people who are experts in one field - like, say, politics - to think of everything else in terms of politics; from an interesting crooked timber post here comes the argument that many fields - engineering, science, management - tend to disregard anything outside their own field, complete with this great quote from CP Snow:
A good many times I have been present at gatherings of people who, by the standards of the traditional culture, are thought highly educated and who have with considerable gusto been expressing their incredulity of scientists. Once or twice I have been provoked and have asked the company how many of them could describe the Second Law of Thermodynamics. The response was cold: it was also negative. Yet I was asking something which is the scientific equivalent of: Have you read a work of Shakespeare’s?
I now believe that if I had asked an even simpler question—such as, What do you mean by mass, or acceleration, which is the scientific equivalent of saying, Can you read?—not more than one in ten of the highly educated would have felt that I was speaking the same language. So the great edifice of modern physics goes up, and the majority of the cleverest people in the western world have about as much insight into it as their neolithic ancestors would have had...
It's a fantastic line of thought, and I now want to seek out the original source material; but it does drive the point home to me why we're having such problems now around global warming and the pushback against evolution; people who are not scientists, but philosophers, or religious figures, or politicians, see science as just another social construct, one in which the truths are relative and can be manipulated. But the fact is, you can be an expert in your own field and still be completely ignorant about another one. There is such a thing as reality, science is all about the real, and scientists are canaries in the global coal mine. Eppur si muove.
The facts that science studies are indifferent to economics, politics, or religion; it wouldn't take very much to cause (for instance) widespread global famine, and there are few belief systems that than outlast the starvation of every adherent. The media might want to interview a few Mayans about that. Ask any farmer: a few degrees' difference in temperature here or there at the wrong time of year, and localized disaster awaits. A bit of drought, and you have catastrophe. And if you have that going on in many places at once...
But the media have not been asking the farmers, now have they?
I Am Iron Man! (do do do do dooodooo do do do)
I saw it last night with JediSchoolDropout and his pal Dave, in a discount low-rent theatre on the east side, and what can I say? That was a fantastic movie. It's very hard to get a blockbuster to be that light on its feet, but the cast is excellent right down to the bit players, and the film is full of subtle nods, winks, and bright sparkly moments that make the whole thing a delight. When you get a movie that can get laughs out of the personality of inanimate objects, you've got something special. Jeff Bridges and Gwneth Paltrow are revelations, Robert Downey is charming in the role he was born to play, and the whole thing was just plain fun. (Okay, the origin stuff was grim, but that's kind of the point; and it works much better than the original, Vietnam era creation story).
After the show, we wandered about commercial drive with Dave, before meeting up with his blind date at what turned out to be a stealth vegan restaurant. JDS was pleased with the acting and the lack of condescesion to the material, as well as the screenwriter's ability to get the actors out of theior masks at the key moments. Dave was happy with the secret fanboyservice scene at the end of the credits, which writes a huge check for any potential sequel. But given how cocksure and charming Downey and Favreau were while beating the odds to get this one made right, why shouldn't they be able to pull it off?
And while the Onion hit it out of the park last week, it's nice to see that their fears were unfounded:
Wildly Popular 'Iron Man' Trailer To Be Adapted Into Full-Length Film
After the show, we wandered about commercial drive with Dave, before meeting up with his blind date at what turned out to be a stealth vegan restaurant. JDS was pleased with the acting and the lack of condescesion to the material, as well as the screenwriter's ability to get the actors out of theior masks at the key moments. Dave was happy with the secret fanboyservice scene at the end of the credits, which writes a huge check for any potential sequel. But given how cocksure and charming Downey and Favreau were while beating the odds to get this one made right, why shouldn't they be able to pull it off?
And while the Onion hit it out of the park last week, it's nice to see that their fears were unfounded:
Wildly Popular 'Iron Man' Trailer To Be Adapted Into Full-Length Film
Friday, May 02, 2008
And for posterity...
Let the record show: Cats and Air mattresses do not mix.
I'm thinking some bloggy thoughts, but work is busy. I think...I may review some comic books. BUt that makes me think I may want to start a second blog, which makes me think I'd better shut down that line of thought quick. Write first, publish second.
I'm thinking some bloggy thoughts, but work is busy. I think...I may review some comic books. BUt that makes me think I may want to start a second blog, which makes me think I'd better shut down that line of thought quick. Write first, publish second.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
The Balkanization of the Planetary Mindnet
Copyright's been annoying me a lot lately, in a very particular way: Canada seems to be getting screwed when it comes to media access. If the internet is founded on a premise of being able to access all available information, it then becomes that little bit extra irritating every time that you try to read some post or follow some link only to be brought up short by a message that the content can't be viewed in Canada.
What got me thinking about it was a comment by the remixers who created that Robyn video from a few days ago - A remix, it must be stressed, made with the blessing of the original artist. At the original Youtube posting, people were asking about the possibility of buying the remix, but the remixers commented that it's up to the artist - well---
Q [Gella21] : So then you've decided to drop the mthrfckrs part of your name? Also, when is Be Mine coming out on vinyl???
A [ocelotmthrkckr] : yes we decided it was a cleaner branding job to just do ocelot and also we would be fighting an uphill battle to radio, distributors and stores to carry our records. i dont think our version is going to be on vinyl in the end i think the robyn camp decided ours would go on a cd or maybe just digital. the downside of remixing is that once you turn a track in you rarely get a copy of the finished product. and living in america makes it increasingly difficult to acquire them.
"living in america", indeed. If you go to the Robyn website, it splits off into a site for North America (splayed over an American Flag, no less), and one for the rest of the world. One of them has lots of information (at least), and the other barely has a store, which dumps you on iTunes. Guess which is which? I suppose it's a step up from the old days of import versions, but just barely.
And as the walls go up around the US, where does that leave us? Scrabbling on the outside, peering in at clips from US shows that redirect us to their crippled Canadian counterparts?
And that's not even getting into the really ominous news from today:
Copyright crazies gaining steam in Canada.
And yet, on the other hand, this week I came across (via Beaucoup Kevin) something so impressive as to beggar description: a remixed hour long history of sampled music called "Raiding The Twentieth Century", put together by DJ Food originally for XFM's 'The Remix' show in London, in 2004. The MP3 is an incredible listening experience, and if you doubt it check out the track listing:
Link
So yeah. Fascists, Anarchists. 21st century style. I think I'll be revisiting this one.
What got me thinking about it was a comment by the remixers who created that Robyn video from a few days ago - A remix, it must be stressed, made with the blessing of the original artist. At the original Youtube posting, people were asking about the possibility of buying the remix, but the remixers commented that it's up to the artist - well---
Q [Gella21] : So then you've decided to drop the mthrfckrs part of your name? Also, when is Be Mine coming out on vinyl???
A [ocelotmthrkckr] : yes we decided it was a cleaner branding job to just do ocelot and also we would be fighting an uphill battle to radio, distributors and stores to carry our records. i dont think our version is going to be on vinyl in the end i think the robyn camp decided ours would go on a cd or maybe just digital. the downside of remixing is that once you turn a track in you rarely get a copy of the finished product. and living in america makes it increasingly difficult to acquire them.
"living in america", indeed. If you go to the Robyn website, it splits off into a site for North America (splayed over an American Flag, no less), and one for the rest of the world. One of them has lots of information (at least), and the other barely has a store, which dumps you on iTunes. Guess which is which? I suppose it's a step up from the old days of import versions, but just barely.
And as the walls go up around the US, where does that leave us? Scrabbling on the outside, peering in at clips from US shows that redirect us to their crippled Canadian counterparts?
And that's not even getting into the really ominous news from today:
Copyright crazies gaining steam in Canada.
And yet, on the other hand, this week I came across (via Beaucoup Kevin) something so impressive as to beggar description: a remixed hour long history of sampled music called "Raiding The Twentieth Century", put together by DJ Food originally for XFM's 'The Remix' show in London, in 2004. The MP3 is an incredible listening experience, and if you doubt it check out the track listing:
Link
So yeah. Fascists, Anarchists. 21st century style. I think I'll be revisiting this one.
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